


In Heaven Everything is Fine

by levendis



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Body Horror, Character Death, Constructed Reality, Gen, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-23 06:46:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3758422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Danny, in the final moments of the Nethersphere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Heaven Everything is Fine

This place is dying. Danny Pink is already dead, though, so he figures he doesn’t mind so much. Considering this will be the third time he’s died. You get used to sacrifice after a while, if you do it enough.

It started in the outskirts and is eating its way in, the death. Like a sort of static, how TV sets used to look when they were tuned between stations, before everything went digital. It’s the kind of thing Clara would have had a name for.

He knows he did the right thing, or he thinks he does, and either way the thing is done. No sense dwelling. But thinking of her puts a weight on his chest and his shoulders, a thickness in his throat. He’s cried enough for a few lifetimes, and he’s dried up now, wrung out. Still. He’s looking forward to this being over.

The problem is, this place is taking so long to die. He’s getting bored. Heartache can only take up so much time. He can’t stand here and wait for the death to dissolve him. He’s not in the mood to give in, to submit to _her_.

He starts walking.

 

 

There’s not that many people left. There’s not much of anything left.

Whatever, or whoever, was holding this place together is gone. The gleaming city is gone. In its place is something darker, is what looks like chunks of different memories, different dreams. A skyscraper here, a farmhouse there. Streets that are only sometimes streets, that are also rivers, or dirt roads. Countries against countries, centuries fighting for toeholds.

It’s them, he thinks. It’s the people still here, the stuff in their heads - this place is reflecting them. Some sort of virtual reality. Clara would have had a word for it. Clara’s not here. He reminds himself that he did the right thing. He hopes she’s happy, wherever she is.

He heads into a neighborhood, or a neighborhood is built up around him. Is he frightened? He might be. It’s hard to be frightened when you’re already dead, though.

A man in grey coveralls runs past him, screaming. He’s shooting blindly over his shoulder at the static, with some sort of laser gun. Beams of light coming out, pew pew pew. The static is unperturbed.

Danny waves, but the man doesn’t acknowledge him, just keeps running and shooting and screaming.

 

 

There’s a light up ahead. A pawn shop, he thinks, squinting; his eyesight is excellent but it’s hard to tell what things are in this place. He has no need or desire for a pawn shop. He heads towards it anyway. Where else would he go?

Behind him, the sidewalks and tarmac are being swallowed up by a cornfield. He picks up his pace.

The window’s full of neon signs, buzzing like bees: OPEN, CLOSED, 24-7, BUY & SELL, CASH 4 GOLD. He walks in. The bell above the door jingles.

“Hello?” he calls out, but there’s no one else here. No one he can see, anyway. He rings the bell by the till just in case. No answer.

A cardboard box of wedding bands and engagement rings sits on the counter. He digs through it, looking for the ring he would have worn if he hadn’t died. The sharp edges of diamonds, artificial diamonds, and teeth cut his hands. Finally, a few feet down into the pile, he finds it. He climbs out, coughing up a topaz-and-silver number he’d accidentally inhaled, and slips the ring onto his ring finger. It fits perfectly. He holds up his fist, admiring how the warm gold is offset by his skin and the blood trickling from his knuckles.

There’s a taxidermy dog by the left wall, up on a pedestal. Cybernetic implants on its head glittering in the spotlights. The brass plaque says MABEL: A GOOD DOG.

“Is that really you? Oh, God, it’s been a while.” He hopes it really is her. The two options are: dead pets were uploaded to this place, or she’s just a figment of his imagination. He chooses the first one. Hard enough keeping his head on straight without dealing with imaginary pets.

Mabel isn’t dead, he realizes upon closer inspection. Just sleeping. Which is funny, because he hasn’t seen her since before he changed his name. Which was, oh, however many years ago. A long time. She’d been a one-eared rescue boxer, and he’d been a messed-up rescue kid, and they’d hit it off instantly. Closest thing he ever had to a friend, in those days. He feels that choked, rocks-in-his-ribcage sensation again.

He reaches out and strokes her back. “Are you a Cyberman? A - Cyberdog?”

_No_ , Mabel says. Or doesn’t say, not in words out loud, but the information is made available to him. _No, I just wandered too far. Another neighborhood, where they do this to their kind._

“Does it hurt?” His hand comes up to his face, remembering.

_Only as much as anything does._ She presses her head against his arm, looking up at him with her one dog-eye, the other electronic one shuttered and blank.

He picks her up off the pedestal and sets her down. She barks happily, and follows him out to the street. Keeps following. He’s got a dog again now.

“Did I do the right thing?” he asks. The street, empty and cracking, has no answers for him. Mabel barks sympathetically.

 

 

This place, he realizes at some point, is no longer dying. The static has settled, the streets have stopped shifting. This place is no longer dying and he’s still here so logically it follows that he’s not dying, either, or at least not dying any more than he already has. He’s understandably a little frustrated.

He keeps walking. What else is there to do? Mabel whimpers and barks at shadows - he hopes they’re only shadows. His feet don’t hurt, and his legs aren’t sore, but they’re not real feet and they’re not real legs, and he’s not really walking, just imagining himself walking. The stress headache feels real, but who knows.

 

A wind is starting up. Something’s coming. Something is stepping through a rift in the air and brushing her hair back into place.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he says, and sighs heavily.

Missy is nine feet tall and glowing around the edges. Her dress is in tatters, her skin falling off in spots. She fiddles at the buttons on a small box, and she snaps back to normal. As close to normal as someone like her could ever get, anyway.

She’s staring right at him. “It’s you. Again. Aren’t you tired of ruining my day?”

“Aren’t you tired of ruining mine?”

“I asked first. Nevermind, it doesn’t matter.” She pauses, narrows her eyes at him. “Since you’re here, it couldn’t hurt to ask: would you be interested in doing a teensy little favor for me?”

“You’re joking. Funny people, you Time Lords.” He’s not laughing. Neither is Mabel.

Missy rolls her eyes. “I need someone to - oh, how to phrase it so you’ll understand - I need someone to flip a switch, yes? While I flip another switch.” She’s enunciating very carefully, speaking loudly, as if he were a small child and also hard of hearing. “Otherwise the Nethersphere will self-destruct. You could save it. You could save all these people. You do like being a hero, don’t you?”

“The one certainty in life is death,” he says. “Besides, we’re already dead. And we don’t mind, do we Mabel?”

_No_ , Mabel says, and growls.

“It’s my will against yours, and I have a very strong will. If you think you can resist me-”

“I don’t need will,” he says. Carefully, loudly, like she’s a small child who is also hard of hearing. “Because you know what I am? I’m done. I’m over it, over you, over this ridiculous place. I won’t help you.”

She looks at him oddly. “That is will, though. What you just said, that is actually…willpower, that’s exactly what willpower is.”

“I was a maths teacher,” he says, and shrugs. “Never much good with words.”

That box in her hands looks important. She’s not guarding it well. He judges the distance between them. He could do it, sure. So he does: a run and a jump and he’s knocked it out of her hands. The sound of it shattering beneath his heel is deeply satisfying.

She’s yelling something about _idiot human_ and _you little monkeys always breaking things you don’t understand_ but honestly he’s completely and utterly finished with listening to anything she has to say.

The static is coming. Missy’s gone, maybe dead, probably just elsewhere. Doesn’t matter. He’s done.

“I’ve done what I can,” he tells Mabel. “What happens next - well, that’s up to them, isn’t it? The universe can take care of itself now.” He sits down on the curb, Mabel settling next to him.

 

The static comes. Surrounding him, or becoming him, or whatever - Clara would have a word for that. And then finally, there’s nothing. Nothing at all.


End file.
